


The long and winding road.....(that leads to your door)

by orphan_account



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Feels, M/M, Reconciliation, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The reality sets in, and Arthur realizes.....Eames will always be there for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The long and winding road.....(that leads to your door)

Arthur stares blankly up at the ceiling, imposing patterns on the stucco. A bat, a teapot. He doesn’t have the energy to rehash what he did wrong that time, where his mistake was.  Usually, he’d use something like this as a learning experience, so that next time he won’t be caught off guard.  Ah, but there’s the kicker – there won’t ever _be_ a next time, so why bother stewing over it?

The nurse comes in every once in awhile to check on him, make sure his vitals are okay, and to chide him for not having eaten anything since the day before.  Even if the food didn’t look like murky, gelatinous slop, Arthur still wouldn’t be hungry. He might as well waste away, for all he cares; nobody would miss him.  She sighs and changes his IV bags.

So it goes, day in, day out.  Cobb sends a bouquet, calls him to say he’ll visit as soon as he can.  Arthur wants to tell him not to bother;  it’s not like he’ll be required to keep in touch with him anymore now that Arthur's off dreamshare. Cobb will find a new point, forget about him, and everyone’s life will go on.

Everyone’s but his, that is.

“You have a visitor,” the nurse informs him one afternoon.

“I’m not in the mood.” Arthur replies automatically. Unless, of course, it’s someone who’s come to finish him off. In which case, they’re more than welcome.

“He said you’d say that. Then he said to tell you he came a long way to visit you.” A ghost of a smile tugs on her lips, almost playful. Ugh. Can someone get him a new nurse?

 “Not my problem.”

“He also said you’d say something like that. He told me to tell you you’re an absolute prat.” 

Arthur stares at her dumbly, fitting the pieces together, but choosing instead not to believe it.

“It would be good for you, Arthur.” The nurse goes on, in that gentle teasing tone. Her eyes twinkle. “And from the looks of it I think it would be good for him as well.”

She watches him intently, waiting for an answer, then sighs when she determines Arthur won’t respond. She throws her hands in the air. “Alright, alright, I’ll tell him now’s not a good time-”

 “I’ll see him.” Arthur blurts out before he can stop himself.

_Great._

The nurse beams, like this was obviously the right answer. “I’ll be right back.”

Arthur toys with his blanket after she scuttles off, hating how he’s suddenly nervous. It can’t be. Why would – why would he come back, after all this time. Arthur takes a breath in to steady himself.  He’s not ready for this, he isn’t –

Arthur is almost considering making a break for it when he hears that familiar, lilting voice.

“Hullo Arthur.”

Too late.

“Hello, Eames.”

It’s quiet for a moment as they both stare grimly at each other. What do you even say? It’s been over a year since he’s seen Eames last, and, from the way he’d behaved, Arthur quite honestly expected he’d never see him again.  Eames looks tired and scruffy, like he’s been on a plane for the last 20 hours, which probably isn’t far from the truth.  Even his clothes look shabbier than normal. He probably stinks.

“I brought something for you.” Eames offers into the uncomfortable silence: a balloon: a plain, red crinkly helium balloon. It’s so ridiculous Arthur just glares at him.

“A balloon, Eames?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Eames says, looking up at it, contemplative. “A great deal of strategy went into this balloon. I thought flowers would be too presumptuous and a teddy bear would probably end up with my receiving a bloody nose. Chocolates, I know you don’t like because you’re absolutely batshit loony, although I did toy with the idea of a charm bracelet. And don’t even get me started about the minutiae of choosing this _particular_ balloon. That in itself was a nightmare. I debated for hours on whether red was too bold a choice, but the only other options were _It’s a Girl_ and _Happy 25 th Anniversary_, and so.....here you are.”   What Eames means to say, but doesn’t, is that he wouldn’t want to give Arthur a _Get Well Soon_ balloon, because really, who are they fooling? 

“Well, thanks, I guess,” Arthur says, as Eames takes it upon himself to tie the string to the bed railing. He almost lets himself be cheered by the gesture, but catches himself. Just to be a dick, he adds dryly, “You really shouldn’t have.”

Eames grins, but it seems faded, not at all his usual vibrant, ravenously flirtatious self.  

“How are you?” he asks, genuine concern plastered across his face. Damn him.

Arthur sighs deeply. “I don’t know. Fine.”

“You’re looking a little haggard. They feeding you?”

“Well, you look like a hobo. So there’s that.”  Arthur grimaces. “You wanna eat that shit?”

Eames peers into the untouched bowl of.....something.  “Touché.”

Eames worries his lower lip, like he’s not really sure what he was going to say after the balloon spiel.  “I should’ve called, maybe, but I was worried you’d tell me not to come.”

“You’d be right about that.”

Eames smiles sadly, and Arthur kicks himself for being such an insensitive asshole. He backtracks. “Sorry. I’m.....I just have a lot on my mind. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Naw, you’re just a little spitfire, you can’t help that,” Eames reads off the card next to the flowers. “From Dom. Well. Glad I didn’t go with the flowers, then.”

 “I.....wasn’t expecting you to come.” Arthur confesses.

“No, you wouldn’t, especially since I had to learn about this through _Cobb.”_ Eames says the name as if it was sour on his tongue. “And only then under vigorous interrogation, I might add. Christ, Arthur, you could have at least texted me.”

“Well, forgive me if I’m not keen on wanting this to get out,” Arthur snaps, “I’m sure a lot of people would be popping champagne if they heard what became of Arthur Cohen.”

“Like me?” Eames shoots back, and it cuts through Arthur’s indignation like a razor.

No. No way. No matter what happened between them, Eames would never come here to gloat, and Arthur feels a pang of guilt for even having dared to think it.

“Well,” Arthur says, “I’d deserve it.”

It’s quiet for a minute, both not really knowing how to be with each other anymore; the balance between them upset. Arthur is worried that Eames would ask how it happened.....or worse, if Eames would pity him for it. If there’s one thing Arthur wouldn’t be able take, it’d be Eames’ _pity._

“Why are you here?” Arthur asks softly.

Eames scoffs like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Because I wanted to see you, silly.”

“After last time –“

“What happened happened. And yeah, it’s been a rough road, and I’ve bloody well wanted to kill you for being such a daft, heartless bastard on more than one occasion, but.......we’ve been though a lot, and you’re still my mate.” Eames shrugs. “I’m sure you’d come to visit me.”

Arthur doesn’t even have to think twice about it. “Yeah,” he says weakly. “Of course I would.”

Arthur does something very unexpected then: reaches for Eames’ hand on the railing, lacing their fingers together in a quiet act of intimacy. He wants to thank Eames for coming, but doesn’t know how to form the words.  He _is_ glad to see him, even though every time Arthur looks at his dumb, handsome face he’s reminded of all the shitty things he’s done to him in the past. Eames is a good person. Eames is a good person and Arthur doesn’t know what magic star he wished on to have Eames fall in love with him in the first place.

“Do you want to go outside maybe?” Eames asks tentatively.  “There’s a pond nearby. I bought bread crusts for the ducks.”

Even in this state, Arthur can manage a scowl as caustic as battery acid. “You’re kidding.”

Eames shakes his head. “Listen Arthur, I know you’re a stuck up little twat but you cannot tell me that you don’t enjoy feeding ducks. They are warm, fluffy creatures and would be much let-down if you were to refuse.” Eames pulls his hand away to form a duck-mouth with his thumb and four fingers, and talks them in time to his words. “Feed us, Arthur,” Eames croons in a high-pitched, cartoony voice. “Please, feeeeeed us, we’re huuuuungry. Quack quack.”

Arthur wants to say _no, fuck you very much, I’m not five fucking years old,_ but Eames looks so stupidly hopeful with his goddamn duck-hand, and  Arthur knows he probably flew in from god knows where just to see him. He owes him at least this. Besides, he has to go outside sometime;  as much as he’d rather it wasn’t with Eames, he has to admit that he takes some comfort in his presence. Like an old blanket.

 “You are so ridiculous.” Arthur glares at him, but before he knows it he’s chuckling. “Fine, fine. We’ll go down to the fucking pond. But I swear to God, Eames, you better not do that duck thing anymore. That’s an abomination.” He pauses, then adds as an afterthought, “At least use a sock or something.”

Eames grins brightly at Arthur’s  burst of feistiness – relieved, maybe, at knowing the old Arthur’s still in there, ready to kick him in the balls if he gets too goopey on him. He makes his duck-hand nip at Arthur’s nose, grinning impishly all the while, and Arthur makes a mental note to punch him in the face later.

_Just like old times._

Eames goes for the wheelchair, rolls it to Arthur’s bedside, and suddenly Arthur remembers why this wasn’t such a good idea after all. His throat constricts, and the light-hearted moment they just shared evaporates from the room in seconds flat, to be replaced with heavy stillness.

“You ready?” Eames asks, his voice as soft as terrycloth.

No.  Arthur isn’t ready for this. None of this. Not for Eames, not for the wheelchair. It’s too much. He’s not strong enough.

Arthur beats down those thoughts  and nods dumbly. _Just get it over with._ _Stop being a baby._

Eames seems to sense his trepidation, and reaches for him gently, pulling back the blankets and lowering the bedside railing.

“Easy now, there’s a love,“ Eames soothes in Arthur’s ear as he reaches to ease him into it. His embrace is so warm, so sturdy, so familiar. He helps Arthur sit up, but they don’t get any further than that: suddenly, the gravity of Arthur’s situation hits him like a cannon ball to the gut.  Before he knows it, he’s gripping Eames’ strong shoulders, clasping his shirt like it’s his only lifeline. The sobs come up from his throat on their own volition, the tears too. This is his life now. This is his life, and of all people, it’s Eames, _Eames_ , who has come for him.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Arthur blurts out into Eames’ neck, half muffled. He wishes he meant, _I’m sorry for having a mental breakdown, this is extremely embarrassing, and I hate subjecting you this, I’ll pull it together in a minute._

 But that’s a lie. Really, what he means is:

  _I’m sorry I left you in the middle of the night, without an explanation, because I couldn’t handle it, because I was too stupid. I’m sorry I didn’t return any of your calls. I’m sorry that I made you chase me when I wasn’t ready to be caught.  I’m sorry for Prague, I’m sorry for Baltimore. I’m sorry I keep giving you hope and I’m sorry I always wind up disappointing you._

_I’m sorry I broke your heart._

“Shhh, Shhhh, darling, it’s okay.” Eames is saying, holding him tight and patting his back. “You’re okay.”

“Eames,” Arthur sobs, melting into his arms. “God.”

Eames gently pulls away, only to take Arthur’s head in his hands to press their foreheads together.  Arthur’s sure he looks a mess, snotty and blotchy and unruly hair. He can’t bring himself to meet Eames’ eyes, afraid of what he might see there, focusing instead on the horrendous pattern of Eames’ shirt.

“Arthur,” Eames soothes, low and sweet, “I’m here.” He presses a kiss to the corner of Arthur’s mouth before Arthur can try and retreat from it. “I’ll be here for you, always.”

 “How?” Arthur says softly in between sniffles, incredulous. “How could you possibly want me? Eames,” Arthur steels himself for what he’s about to say. He’s been avoiding it, denying it, hoping he’d wake up and it would go away. But it isn’t.  His breath hitches. “......I’m never going to walk again.”

It echoes in his ears – the first time he allowed himself to think it, let alone say it aloud.

_I am never going to walk again._

_Wheelchair-bound._

_For life._

_Damaged._

_Useless._

_Cripple._

 “I’d have you any way you’d let me have you.” Eames says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Arthur laughs at the sheer ridiculousness of this whole thing, but it gets caught in his throat.

“You’re an idiot, then.”

“Don’t I know it.” Eames sighs, tucking Arthur’s hair back into place. He holds Arthur until his breathing evens out and his snot stops leaking all over the damn place. Arthur’s heart breaks all over again, and this time, he knows, won’t be like those other times.  He has Eames, and knows he’ll never, ever let him go again.

 “Now,” Eames says brightly, wiping at Arthur’s wet cheeks. “How about those ducks?”


End file.
